Odds & Nods

Deb's blog today on when and where people die the most and the least got me thinking back to my years in New England. Seems the highest rate for suicide occurred in northern New Hampshire every March. The poor devils up there in the deep woods who had just survived six months of winter and ten feet of snow look to their calendar, and the world is telling them that spring is nigh and their troubles are almost over. They would like to believe the calendar and the world but then, they look out their windows, see that the ten feet of snow is still there, and that they have two more months of winter yet ahead, and they just can't take it. They squeeze the triggers. As for August being the month with less deaths, tell it to the lady who was killed on her bike here last week or to the two canoeists who drowned in the Kaw just the other day, also here in Topeka.

Speaking of death: I read with sadness the account of the cops who accidentally killed that little boy in Oklahoma the other day. The officers had been called to a home by the frantic owner because a snake was in the tree. Their bullets went astray and hit the child who was with his grandpa some distance away, fishing at a pond. Snakes are almost the perfect stealth animal. They are silent and slithering and one hardly knows they are around. When the reptile wants to scoot, they are tough to catch for anyone stupid enough to want to catch one. Long and skinny, a snake is almost impossible to hit with a rifle or pistol. Tried that once ten years ago. Heard a racket up an elm tree when I lived in the country. Birds just making a terrible racket. Went out, looked up, and sure enough there was a huge black snake coiled around a robin's nest. Since I couldn't see the raider's head I knew it was in the nest eating the babies. I ran back into the house and returned with a pistol. My hope was to hit the snake and not the baby birds. I blazed away at the thing's body . . . with no luck. I next raced back into the house, frightened and angry, and returned with a single-barrelled shotgun. So wound up was I at the time that my only thought then was to kill the damned snake first and worry about the birds later. Well, I got the snake . . . but I also blew the nest and baby birds clean away. The snake dropped down two or three feet and hung by its tail wrapped around a limb, a huge chunk of daylight clearly visible through the length of the thing. The whole affair was awful. After the reptile finally dropped to the ground I pitched him across the road with a rake. The tree finally got silent again. The poor, frantic birds no longer had any purpose and flew sadly away.

Deb's tour business is off and running. TV and radio requests, people calling all the time, full tours, increased schedules. I think for the first time in her life the woman has really arrived. Wonder why it took so long? Probably sex! After high school, Deb married once or twice, became a court reporter in Winston-Salem, a radio host in Mt. Airy, and a waitress in Richmond, in that order. Her restless spirit may have cost her in marriage and employment, but in two or three cases, at least, she considers it money well spent. At a dead end and frustrated, she packed her bags one day and moved to Kansas with a baby on the hip and no money to her name. She had heard about Washburn University (the greatest school on earth) through a friend, wanted desperately to earn a college degree and so, to put herself through school, she took a job in Topeka as a dispatcher for the city bus line. As should be apparent by now, almost every job in her long resume of employment involves either a lot, or a whole lot, of talking. The only job she ever had that did not require her vocal skills was at a Mt. Airy textile mill where she was expected to sit all day by herself at a loom. She quit that position in a matter of hours. Indeed, my first introduction to the two-legged talking machine was at a Topeka history club in which she was--what else?--the guest speaker. Tours, travel, history, crowds, people paying to hear yarns--Deb has arrived.

Pencil removed from woman's head after 55 years! My God! I have no problems at all!

(photos: Mexican Ant, top right; Cigar Beetle, middle left; Monarch Butterfly, lower right)

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Jewelry of the Day












Green Turquoise and Silver

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Political Cartoon of the Day

The Face of War

Little Big Horn . . . Rosebud . . . Washita . . . Summit Springs . . . Slim Buttes . . . Beecher's Island. . . . Many of us are familiar with the big battles of the Indian Wars. They have been written about, they have been portrayed in film, their lessons have been studied by young and old about to go to modern wars. From fights such as the above, we unavoidably come away with a somewhat romantic notion of the IW's. We see brilliant war bonnets in the sun, we hear bugles sounding the charge, and there, of course, is Buffalo Bill or California Joe riding headlong into the fray. But let us not forget that first and foremost the IW's were WAR. And not just any war either, but a messy guerrilla war. While colorful battles make for compelling reading, the essence of the IW's were very much like any other irregular war--the one-on-one, face-to-face encounter. For every Washita and Rosebud, there were a hundred incidents such as the following.

On September 27, 1868, a column of cavalry was just concluding a day's march on the high and dry plains of far western Kansas. Ahead was the sandy, shallow South Fork of the Republican River. Sigmund Shlesinger, a Jewish army scout, and his friend, Ben Clark, were riding a little in advance of the rest.

"Before Clark and I descended to the bottom, we looked around and saw four Indians running toward three horses," Shlesinger later wrote. "Three of them jumped on their horses and in great agitation galloped away through the water to the other side of the river and kept on to the south as fast as their ponies could carry them, leaving their companion behind. He ran after them, but of course could not overhaul them. . . . [W]e noticed two or three of our company . . . hasten down to the bottom toward the Indians."

One of those bearing down on the lone warrior was Jack Peate.

Just before he came to the river he dropped a woman's white skirt and soon after a calico dress; then, as the race grew warmer (we were on the rolling ground south of the river now), he dropped his blanket. The sport, to us, was now becoming exciting. The boys shooting at the Indian whenever they could. The Indian was running very, very fast, but we were gaining on him slowly. He would not run in a straight line; he would jump several times to the right, then back to the left, still rushing ahead. . . . [The] bullets were striking the ground all around him. It looked as if the Indian would get to the deep canon still a half mile away, where his comrades had passed out of sight, when a shot from a . . . rifle . . . broke the Indian's right leg above the knee. . . . After hopping a few feet he sits down and faces the foe. The few hundred feet that still separate us is soon passed over. As soon as the Indian faces us he commences to fire, being armed with a Colt's navy revolver. . . . Then something seems to be the matter with his revolver; he looks into it and throws it on the ground. Not a shot was fired by our party while advancing after the Indian discarded his revolver. . . . [H]e was a young man, perhaps twenty-five years of age. . . . He was chanting a weird song and did not offer any resistance. He knew what his fate would be and showed no fear.

The next morning, Peate returned to the spot. "The wolves had held a banquet there," he noted, "and a few bones was all that remained of the warrior of yesterday."

Also in the area were the graves of several Indians, including one inside a white tepee.

Again, Jack Peate:

We went into the lodge and found that it was the tomb of a medicine man. . . . The Indian was placed on a scaffold that was eight feet high. Fastened to the scaffold was his war bonnet and a large drum. He was wrapped in blankets and a buffalo robe and tied on the scaffold. The posts on one side of the scaffold were torn away by the boys so we could have a better look at the good Indian. The body was then rolled to the edge of the canon and it rolled from there to the bottom.

Sigmund Shlesinger also was there:

All the bodies were pulled down from their lofty perches. This may seem a wanton sacrilege, but not to those who have suffered bodily torture and mental anguish from those very cruel savages. I had no scruples in rolling one out of his blankets, that still were soaking in the blood from the wounds that evidently caused his death, and appropriating the top one that was least wet. This Indian had on a headdress composed of buckskin beautifully beaded and ornamented, with a polished buffalo horn on the frontal part and eagle feathers down the back. When I took this off, maggots were in the headpiece. I also pulled off his earrings and finger rings, which were of tin. He was so far decomposed that when I took hold of the rings the fingers came along, and these I shook out.

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Debbie Daily

Wyoming--There's always something happening at the Buffalo Bill Historical Center in Cody. The latest big news is the acquisition of Plains Indian artifacts valued at more than $22 million. Belonging to the late Paul Dyck of Rimrock, Arizona, the collection contains items from the mid-1700s to the mid-1800s. The general public has never seen most of the items and though some could be on display as early as next summer, museum officials say it will take three years to catalogue the nearly 2,000 pieces. The Museum of the Plains Indian, one of five museums in the BBHC complex, already houses a magnificent collection. The thought of this addition just makes my mouth water. Kansas/Colorado--Our Indian Wars tour scheduled for October is shaping up to be an exciting time. In so many places the landscape is exactly as it would have appeared to Indians and cavalry more than a hundred years ago. And with experts on hand to point out exactly where events occurred (as opposed to where many historical markers have been placed), it sends shivers up my spine to think of it. Email Tom if you'd like to join us. Texas-- Ron "Tater Salad" White (left) has come home to the Lone Star State, and boy did they welcome the cigar smoking, scotch sipping, politically incorrect comic. White, a member of the Redneck Comedy Tour, packed them in at Fort Worth's Will Rogers Auditorium. According to the Fort Worth Star Telegram, White's solution for Mexican immigration to America is to take a tip from Home and Garden TV: "Buy Mexico, fix it up and flip it." And he offered this advice for men wearing turbans who are upset about being searched at airports: "Buy a John Deere cap for travel days!"

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Caption of the Day







Pascagoolahoochee, Alabama (AP). Star running back refuses to miss big play but shocks national audience by relieving himself in front of cameras.

Bloggin' 'n Joggin' the Noggin'

Rattling on this blog has been good for jogging my memory. It forces me to think back, and think back hard, to try and remember things as they really were, not as time and age would have them be. For example. . . .

Nearly ten years ago, Deb and I took the dream trip of a lifetime. We were living in Virginny at the time but in September and October we had a series of talks way out West, beginning at Fort Leavenworth in Kansas. Getting paid to travel is my idea of livin'. At Ft. Livenworth that autumn, I began singing for my bowl of milk. The talk was rather rocky, I thought; colorful, but clumsy. And yet, when the time came and I turned off the slide projector and did my bow, it seemed as if the entire room arose and moved forward to buy a book or two. So, here is this fellow, a former Sad Sack if ever there was one, a troop who could barely keep a stripe on his sleeve (he eventually lost even that one), signing books in a room full of colonels and other assorted brass. The fort commandant, a three-star general? He got in line just like the rest. Should also note that Deb and I were quartered on post in a suite reserved for foreign digs and domestic swells. Is this a great country or what?

Deb and I took our time reaching California on that trip (where most of our talks were) and we saw the sights in the desert. Since we had our bikes on back, we did a lot of that. One evening we took a bike ride along the Gila, or some such Southwestern-excuse-for-a-river. The place was beautiful, a national park, if I remember, and there were Indian ruins. But mercy! Soon after we got on our bikes and whizzed away we discovered that we had stumbled upon the world's Great Mosquito Matrix from which all of the tiny vampires on the planet are born and issue forth into the world. I have been forced to dive head first into a stream in the Yukon to escape the devils (they won't land on your skin if you wear a coat of water); but never had I ever experienced an assault like this. The b-----ds were chasing me! Fortunately, I was going too fast; not so Deb. Like Apaches attacking a lone, slow stagecoach, they sent their arrows again and again into the woman. There were so many landing on her, in fact, that when she swiped her hand across an arm or leg to kill them, she came away with a bloody smear of the vermin. In the old movies, the Apaches dig a hole and plant the hapless Mexican or American captive, then glob honey over their heads. Screen fadeout as the victim screams in agony while the ants tear the flesh from the unfortunate's face one tiny mouthful at a time. Hollywood! Why waste honey? Just stake out a poor wretch naked at sundown along the Gila: drop by drop the vampires will do their job before sunrise. In a word: Worst mosquitos? Not Louisiana bayous; not Yukon wilderness; not Kaw River August; but along the almost-dry Gila in the desert!

Later, after several talks in LA and Orange County, and prior to several more in Fresno and the Bay Area, Deb and I stayed with some of my relatives in Visalia. My Mom's family fled the failing farms and mines during the Dust Bowl and joined the Okie, Arkie, Kansie, Texie, and Mizzery migration of the 1930's. They ended up in the San Joaquin Valley at Visalia (Visalia is Bakersfield w/o the pretension). The extended family numbered about a hundred, and half of 'em came by the see the "mericans" that night. The adults brought coolers filled with more Bud than I had ever seen in one place outside a bar. Waylon and Willie were cranked up totally to the max, neighbors be damned. With the yard lights glaring, the kids were having gladiator contests with plastic swords under the English walnut tree and they were really getting it on. There were some vicious cracks to heads and limbs; lots of yelling, crying and screaming. As the parents looked on approvingly, the pop tops whooshed, the radio roared, the neighbors yelled, and the night dragged on. Conversation was totally out of the question, which was probably a good thing. When ever I bag on Deb's hillbilly home front, her simple reply: "Don't even go there! My hillbillies ain't nothin' compared to yours out in Visalia!"

One final thought: Underneath my chin whiskers lurks a huge scar that I have not seen in years. How did I get it? Back in the late 60's, one of my best friends and I were holding up traffic at a popular drive-in restaurant while we talked to two girls. Some impatient louts behind us ordered us to move it, or get a beating. We, in our cups, took issue and told the dastard rascals to meet us just outside of town where we would settle it by whooping their posterior orifices. Well, when we reached the rendezvous and saw not one but two cars pull up behind us, my friend raced for the trunk where he kept a .25 semi-auto stashed. Just back from Vietnam, my bud was not about to have his kan kicked in Kansas after surviving a year in the boonies. For once in my life, I thought clearly. Pushing my angry friend head first into the trunk, I slammed it shut. And so, for the next half hour, as my friend tried desperately to kick out the back seat of his car, I caught the full wrath of our drive-in folly. When the six or seven victors finally left, and when I finally let my buddy out of the trunk, he found before him a muddy, bloody mess with most of its clothes ripped off. The greatest wound of that night was a hideous opening on the chin of this mess. Good news was: My friend and I didn't go to prison for ten years on manslaughter raps for killing one or more punks. Better news: I had the supreme satisfaction of seeing two of my adversaries also seeking attention in the local ER that night.

(photos: Antelope Canyon, Arizona)

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Looks Good!

Reads Good!!

IS Good!!!


Check It Out!


The new Wild West is hot off the press.

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Pick-A-Caption


















1) Pittsville, Pa. (AP). Despite auto accident that leaves jaw paralyzed, head coach "Slugger" Grunk refuses to miss Sunday game.

2) Hormel, Texas (UPI). Freak electromagnetic storm during Saturday's game allows coach to overhear "pillow talk" between wife and lover.

Sunday Reflections

Just back from my daily bike ride. Thursday night, Paula Lucas, a fifty-four year-old employee of the Kansas Lottery, was killed in a head-on collision with another biker. The accident occurred at Lake Shawnee here in Topeka. The two met at the bottom of a steep hill. The lady was probably killed instantly. The other victim, a man, is still in IC with life-threatening injuries.

I never knowingly met Ms. Lucas. No doubt we passed one another over the years. There are several off-road trails available in Topeka, and at least one mountain bike trail over by the governor's mansion; but the victim, like myself, preferred hard surface. The bike trail around Lake Shawnee is a "fast-track," i.e., a hard surface made for speed. Same with my trail, the Shunga. Both trails are beautiful; a thrill to pedal on. Unfortunately, both trails also have kill zones. Obviously, the area where the woman died is one. On the Shunga, there are several blind curves. The worst are under the overpasses. These are very dangerous and any biker entering these had best use caution and go slow. A few years ago, two individuals did neither and the result was major injuries all around--broken pelvis, ribs, arms, etc.

Myself and many others probably average 15-17 MPH on these trails and occasionally hit speeds of 20-25 MPH. That may not sound like much but trust me, it is. Two people colliding head-on at those speeds create a mess. Was Ms. Lucas wearing a helmet? No. Nor was she wearing a seat belt. Perhaps a helmet would have saved her. And perhaps body armor would have saved another biker in Ohio who was impaled on a tree limb. I firmly believe helmets create a false sense of security. Caution and code yellow for the duration are the best defenses when biking, not helmets, seat belts, air bags, or body armor.

"Why is the flag up? It's not windy." I did NOT hear this question asked by a five-year-old to her mother the other day; but I can well imagine it IS asked a hundred times around the nation daily. After all, the only time the child above had seen the U. S. flag at full staff in her short life was one day when the wind was blowing and the flag was stiff in the breeze. The child understandably thought that the only reason a flag was hoisted to the very top was to catch the wind on a windy day. Lately, the normal position for the flag seems to be at half staff. The flags around here are almost always at half staff for some reason or other--a fallen soldier, a bridge collapse in Minnesota, former president Ford, Lady Bird Johnson, a dead insurance commissioner, et al. Since the top half of the pole seldom gets used anymore, maybe we should just start making the poles half their previous size. I seldom know anymore why the flag is at half-staff. Enough already! Keep the flag all the way up all the time or all the way down; this half-staff business is getting very ridiculous.

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Hello Tom,

I just finished perusing your blog and am impressed by the scope of the material therein. You've done a wonderful job of that and I'm hoping it's worth the effort. . . . Deb's comments about my CD are absolutely on target! They couldn't be better. . . . Thanks! ever so much, Deb. . . . With much appreciation.

George Paris
Topeka, Kansas

TG: Our pleasure, George. Can't wait to listen to the CD (above).

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Photo of the Day